


that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet

by itllbeall-dwight (dupesoclock)



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Headcanons - Names, talk of vomit because like... of course. its adiris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:02:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24074869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dupesoclock/pseuds/itllbeall-dwight
Summary: her name is the plague, and she hates it.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet

**Author's Note:**

> HAVE YOU GOT TIME TO TALK ABOUT MY WIFE ADIRIS?
> 
> this fic is based on the hc that i have that a killer's name is actually given to them by the survivors as a way to identify them all to one another, as well as [this wonderful comic](https://wackflounder.tumblr.com/post/613541903000109056/read-left-to-right-based-on-cursed-dbd-s) which, oh my god. Oh my god ohhhh my god. credit to cursed-dbd also bc its originally from them. bro we all just have the biggest brains. there's also some hc's about plague herself in here... bro i love her.
> 
> i never write in present tense, so there may be some tense issues here and there. also sorry its not as long as my other fic - this was purely word vomit, no pun intended, and didn't want to drag prose out any longer than i had to.
> 
> as always, kudos and comments appreciated, [here's the Tumblr mirror to reblog](https://itwillbeall-dwight.tumblr.com/post/617565644356009984/that-which-we-call-a-rose-by-any-other-name-would). asks for headcanons and writing reqs are open over there too, if you'd like :0! have a good day everybody, and don't forget to love a Babylonian priestess today.

Her name means a disease. Infection, an epidemic. Pestilence. That’s how these people think of her.

They don’t say it to her face, of course - they don’t have time to scorn at her when they are running for their lives. But she hears them, when they don’t think she can. The plague. As if she’s some overwhelming force of destruction, coming to watch them decay without a second thought, without remorse. To a degree, they were correct - in serving the Entity, she had watched them crumple in piles of their own vomit, while covered in hers. A crude, disgusting cycle. She could not say that she enjoyed it. The sickness she spread, that she caused. It only returned her thoughts to those final days. Everything here seemed to be a reminder of that, of her mistakes. She could not save people, so she was made to destroy.

Those who serve the entity, they too get a name. The doctor, the clown, the nurse. Simple names, by appearance. The huntress, the trapper. Names by function, by purpose. The shape, the wraith, the nightmare. Names by impact. In quiet times, in the temple, she thinks on this formula, and wonders where that places her in their minds. Is she a passing wave of disease by appearance alone, or is it her purpose to bedevil the survivors that gave her her name? Or is it, in fact, simply a subconscious insult to how far she has fallen - her actions akin to the very thing that had ruined her life and the life of the people she had sworn to protect, millennia ago, when now their bodies were nothing more than dust and bones, and they only resided in her memories as she added more and more to the body count, serving another god who cared not for her interests, nor the interests of others?

No one else seems to care for their names - maybe they simply never hear it, or maybe that really is the truth, and she is the only one who gives these words weight. But she cannot help it - she would think back on trials, walking with her head held high as she always did, holding her censer to cleanse. She’d hear them scramble off of the generator with fear in their eyes as they saw her approaching, saying those words. It’s the Plague. The Plague is here. She would not say anything, she would simply continue the chase without as much a word, simply staring down at them as the gap grew smaller and their panic grew, looking for a pallet to slam onto her head, or a window ledge to jump over to escape before hard-formed and sweet-smelling clay slammed down on their back with righteous force, channelled from the end of the chain, where it wrapped around her fingers.

And as the bile would rise in her throat and she would take a strained breath, unleashing a purge of sickness in front of her, she would think about this name again - a plague. Infection. Pestilence. Watching as the congealed, green liquid would splash onto them, as they would cough and wheeze as they ran, clapping their hands over their mouth as if not to give her the satisfaction of watching them suffer at that hands of her bedevilment. Sometimes, they would try to hide - and it was only then would she hear the vomit hit the ground in waves, pooling at their feet, and from there she would find them again, to put them out of their misery as she slid their shoulder meat through a hook with an agonizing scream that rang out across the trial.

Sometimes, they would free themselves, hands shaking with pale knuckles as they gripped to the stone, taking a long drink from the pools that the entity had left them - a false hope, she thought, and simply another tool for her to use, as a wave of corruption. She would pass by these pools, where vomit lay on the surface of the water, almost pausing for a moment to stare at her reflection in the disgusting water, raising a hand to her face and running long, decorative metal claws along the cysts behind her headdress before growling and slamming her hand into the water to distort the sad visage of herself staring back at her, feeling the corruption surging through her and the sickness that made breathing difficult. She would stumble back, listening to the whispers of her people in her ears, reminding her of their suffering that she could not save them from, how they would echo as she swallowed down the bile made of iron that stung her throat, seeking out another poor soul to drench in her blood and sickness until they fell to their knees with a scream.

Her name means a disease. Infection, an epidemic. Pestilence. Her name is The Plague, and she hates it.


End file.
